


Census Boys and Sensory Overloads

by Monsieur_Grenouille



Series: The Census [1]
Category: Panic! at the Disco
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dystopia, Eventual Happy Ending, M/M, Schizophrenia, Self-Harm, Suicide Attempt, Talking To Dead People
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-19
Updated: 2020-05-20
Packaged: 2021-03-02 21:53:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,962
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24263899
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Monsieur_Grenouille/pseuds/Monsieur_Grenouille
Summary: Stand up, stand fast, stand firm. But never... and I mean never... stand down.
Relationships: Brendon Urie & Dallon Weekes, Ryan Ross/Brendon Urie
Series: The Census [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1759030
Comments: 15
Kudos: 14





	1. Back on Track

**Author's Note:**

> My thing with chaptered things is... they suck at first. I go back and read the first chapter, and I cringe. So pleeeeeeease stick around.

Master Weekes is a gentle man, with long thin legs and soft clear skin. He protects me, he teaches me, he takes care of me, all in our beat up house. He’s only six years older than me but he acts like he gave birth to me. He’s not strict, though. He’s just solemn. Ever since my parents died, he’s been like that. He’s the best man I know. He can’t know I’m writing this, though. He’d be furious if he knew I’m letting you see my private thoughts. I’ll do the best I can to record this story word for word. So just hold on, and excuse my horrible storytelling skills. 

It starts the second I see him in the street. I’m 16, and I think he was 17. Our eyes lock, his pale face blushing just the slightest. He has wavy chocolate curls that dangle over his eyes, and reddish pink commoner clothes. I have just a white shirt and a tie, so nothing special. I want to touch him, since he seems to be made of glass. He doesn’t take it well when I smile at him. He freaks out and runs away. He leaves behind a book from his satchel, which fell out. I walk over and pick it up, staring at it and turning it to observe both covers. I open it up to see blank pages. I flip through them until I see the Census logo staring me in the eye on of one of his pages. 

My heart just about leaps out of my chest. This boy is with the Census. I shouldn’t be touching his stuff—I shouldn’t even have looked at him. Oh my God... I smiled at him. I have to get home. I have to find Master Weekes and tell him about this. I drop the book in my own satchel and start running. My feet hit the concrete in a pounding rhythm until I can’t hear anything else. _Thud, thud, thud, thud._ Is that my heart or my feet? Everything blurs. I’m not supposed to associate with that boy. A patroller stops me, grabbing me by the shoulders. 

“Young man,” he says, “Why aren’t you with an adult?” 

Words just fall out of my mouth. “M-M-Master Weekes sent me to get food.” 

He lifts his chin disapprovingly, as if he’s better than me. I mean, he probably is, but still. “Go home,” he says, “And bring Weekes with you next time. You shouldn’t be alone.” 

I nod and run a hand through my hair. “Y-Yes, officer. I’m sorry. Have a nice day.” I nod to him before continuing the run. I see Master Weekes standing in front of the library, and a wave of relaxation washes over me. “Master Weekes!” I cry out, “Fuck, sir!” I wrap my arms around his torso and bury my face in his sweater. 

Master Weekes turns around and puts a hand in my hair. “Language, Brendon. What’s wrong?” 

I try to talk while catching my breath. “C-Census boy...” I whisper. 

At the word _Census_ , Master Weekes takes my arm and leads me across the street to our broken wooden house. He’s not mad—he almost never is—but he does place me on a chair and sit in the one across from me. “What did you say about the Census?” he asked urgently. 

I pant. The run wasn’t really long. “I-I was walking around and I saw this... this boy.” 

Master Weekes sits up straighter, accidentally hitting his head on a piece of broken slanted wood. He ignored it, though. “Go on.” 

I bite my lip. “I smiled and waved at him, but it must’ve scared him. So... so he ran away. He had a satchel with him like me, and one of the books fell out.” I reach into my bag and pull out the book. It’s black on the front, with tangly gold borders. It has G.R.R. on the front, which must be his initials.

Either that or he’s hostile. 

Master Weekes took the book from my hands. He cocked an eyebrow at me as he tilted it the same way I did. “Tell me,” he began, “where the Census comes into this. How is this a Census thing?” I lean forward to open the book for him, flipping to the page of the drawing. I watch as Master Weekes widens his eyes and almost falls back in his chair. He straightens himself, maintaining his jerky moves and twitches. He gets twitchy when talking about the Census. “Brendon,” he shudders with a sharp tilt of his neck, “You have to return the book to its boy. It can’t be here.” 

I sigh, “Tell me why, this time.” 

Master Weekes hands it back to me. At least he tries, since his wrist snaps up and accidentally flings the book across the room. He’s always at his strangest like this. Brown jacket, long black jeans, messy hair, and involuntary twitches. He looks so tense, so strained, so awkward. But yet, he’s so graceful. It would be seductive, if I wasn’t his student/son/brother/property.

He knocks himself in the temple with his wrist and tugs at his hair. “Ohhhhkayyy,” he breathes, “Back on track, back on track, One two three four five six seven eight nine! Stand up, sir. Back on track, back on track...” 

Okay, I admit it. Master Weekes is crazy. He’s anxious, he’s twitchy, and he can’t help but shiver and whisper random mantras to himself. One of his most used ones was the one he was currently saying.

_Back on track, back on track. One two three four five six seven eight nine! Stand up, sir. Back on track, back on track. Always stand up for what you believe in until proven wrong. Proven wrong, proven wrong, back on track, back on track, shut up shut up just leAVE ME ALONE!_

Afterthe last line (that was always shouted, as if he was talking to someone else), he’d jerk back up in his seat and breathe shakily until he can gather enough energy and strength to rejoin our conversation. I’ve never seen him cry, but I’ve seen those panic attacks. They’re still just as terrifying as they used to be. 

Right now, Master Weekes is nearing the end of his rant. He’s hitting himself in the head harder than normal, so I have to lunge forward and hold his wrist away from his head. “Master Weekes!” I call out. He doesn’t hear me. His eyes are wide and for a second they lock with mine. I can almost see right through him in that moment. I can finally see what he’s doing when he’s shakes and saying the things he says. 

During a sensory overload, he’s reliving his repressed memories. Things he got told so many times that they turned into insults. “Back on track” made sense, but what was with counting to nine? I’ll have to find out later. “Master Weekes!” I shout, “Sir, wake up! It’s not real. None of it is real. It’s just the past. It can’t hurt you now.” 

Master Weekes eventually calms down, but he’s still tense. He shakes and shivers in my hands, panting slightly. “Never...” he barely whispers, “And I mean _never_... get caught up with a Census boy.” 


	2. Stand Up

**Next Tuesday, or so I think**

”Master Weekes,” I walk up to my guardian and clear my throat. He’s reading a book, one I don’t recognize right away. Later I see that it’s one of those end-of-the-world books. The one about the kids killing each other for entertainment. At least the world didn’t end like that. The counting of people just went too far until you had to make a life for yourself as soon as you were counted at the age of ten. “Master Weekes,” I try again. 

He jerks up in his chair and flings the book across the room. “Yesss, chi-ii-ild?” he asks slowly. He brings his hand up in front of his face, twisting his wrist and curling his fingers. He watches it amusedly, chuckling softly. 

I take the book out of my bag. “Can you help me return this?” 

He hums softly and sways a little in his chair. “Perhaps,” he says through a twitch. Then he leans forward so our faces are inches apart. He tilts his head and continues humming. “But do you _really_ need me to go with you?” 

I nod my head. “A patroller caught me alone yesterday.” 

Master Weekes flips his hair back. “Alright then, child. Where do we go to return... that?” He circles his fingers around the book. I open it to the inside cover, where an address is written. 

“4273 Coswell street. Nine blocks away.” 

Master Weekes yelps and shoots up in his chair again. “Nine! Stand up, stand fast, stand firm. But never... ne-e-e-ever stand down.” He’s starting to spiral again, but snaps out of it with another twitch. He stands up and hits his head on the ceiling. He acts like nothing happened as he puts his hand on my back to gently guide me out the door. 

I cock my eyebrow at him at the intersection of 30th and Harp. “What were you saying back there?” 

“I say a lot of things, Brendon. What did I say?” He turns to look at me. 

I squeeze my eyes shut and try to remember. “Stand up, stand fast, stand firm... but never stand down.” 

He laughs, “I haven’t heard that in a long time, my boy!” 

“But what does it mean?” 

He takes my hand as we pass a crowd. It makes him feel safe if I’m basically connected to him. “It... was the old slogan for the–“ he lowers his voice “–rebellion. Stand up, stand fast, stand firm, but never stand down. Did I really say that?” 

I nod my head. “When I mentioned the number nine.” 

He jerks up. “Nine!” he exclaims. 

I sigh, “Exactly. Well... here we are.” I stand in front of 4273 Coswell street. It’s a large brick building, with a black spiked gate and crows everywhere on the neatly cut lawn. If I were stupid I’d say that the sun shone less brightly here. On a gold plaque by the door, the words “Home for Census Boys” is engraved. Census logo banners flow down from the walls. The pitch black check mark with the royal blue background... it makes me sick. I look to Master Weekes, who has his eyes closed. He seems to be humming something, but every so often his lips move just the slightest and I can hear what he’s singing. 

_“This is... the sin... that I— will confess to release myself— from consequence... and everyone can tell...”_ his words are choked and loose, almost as if he’s trying to distract himself from thinking about the Census. He sways lightly on his feet and snaps his fingers quietly. I can’t help but worry about him. He’s been getting more scattered over the past two months, and every so often I’ll find him shaking and hiding from things that aren’t there. He asks who’s screaming when the room is quiet, and has full conversations with the open air. I don’t want to be rude, so I don’t ask him about it. I just let him worry me. 

“Master Weekes,” I say, “I’m going to go ring the doorbell. Please just stand here and don’t move. Keep... keep doing what you’re doing.” 

He nods and continues his singing and leg twitching. I watch him from the corner of my eye as I step past the gates and walk up the stone steps. My heart beats hard in my chest and my complexion turns to that of a ghost when I’m level with the door, one locomotive action away from becoming face to face with a Census person. With a shaking cold hand, I ring the doorbell. I hear shuffling and footsteps until an adult woman answers the door. She looks much like the other Census ladies, with royal blue dresses and the same black beret. Her auburn hair is cut into a bob style, and she’s wearing red lipstick. High heels don her feet. 

“How may I help you?” she asks softly with a Transylvanian accent. Her smile is fake. Her clear skin is fake. She’s fake. She could very well be a robot, which I’m not supposed to trust. I shake away my thoughts and pull the book out of my bag. 

“I-I believe this journal belongs to one of your boys,” I explain as I hand it to her. She takes it quickly, examining the G.R.R. on the front. 

“We have’a many boys with these initials,” she frowns, handing the book back to me. “Please... describe him to me. What did he look like?” 

“I didn’t get a good look at him,” I say.

The lady tuts and sticks her chin up. “I suppose you’re with that man, then?” she looks around my shoulders to examine Master Weekes. “He does not look useful, either.”

_Hey, lady, ever heard of inner monologue? _I shift on my feet and decide to describe him the best I can. “W-Well, he had chocolate brown hair that kind of fell over one of his eyes in a wavy curl, and he wore a dull vest over a pinkish shirt. He had pale skin, too.” 

“Did he look weak?” she asks. 

I resist the urge to call her judge mental. “Y-Yeah, he was... thin. He wore a scarf, too.” 

“What color scarf?” 

“Grey, ma’am.” 

The lady nods and turns her back to call into the building. “Ryan Ross! Someone’s here to see you!” 

I interject, “No, ma’am, I’m not here to–“ I don’t get to finish my sentence, because the boy appears right in front of me. Close up, he’s gorgeous. I can’t trust it, though. The pretty ones always defeat you. His eyes widen at me. He recognizes me. 

“H-Hello,” he greets me shyly. I say the same. The lady walks away, leaving us in the doorway. 

“I just wanted to give you this. You dropped it.” I shove the book into his arms.

He breathes a sigh of relief. “Thank you—I was looking for that!” He then lunges forward to hug me. Awkwardly, I reach my hands up to hug him back. For a Census boy, he feels pretty realistic. There’s no whirring sound of a machine or apathy of a robot. He breathes. I’m overcome with confusion, since he’s a living thing and a Census boy at the same time. Strangest, though, I can feel his heartbeat. I’m pressed against the chest of a Census boy, but I can feel his heart. It’s quick and heavy, but so is mine. It took a second to realize what it meant, but the world was never the same after I did. 

We’re both scared.


	3. Stand Fast

“Ohhhhkayyyy,” Master Weekes shakes himself slightly in front of the library. “Think... think think think...” 

I fear for our lives. Master Weekes was about to have another panic attack. Worse—we’re in public.

I should’ve seen it coming. He hasn’t been doing well lately. Seeing things that aren’t there, hearing voices I can’t even begin to hear, and breaking into even more broken speeches. Now, in the middle of the street, he’s twitching and stimming as “Back on track, back on track. One two three four five six seven eight nine! Stand up, sir! Back on track, back on track. Always stand up for what you believe in until proven wrong. Proven wrong, proven wrong, back on track, back on track, shut up shut up just leAVE ME ALONE!” he stops suddenly, then collapses on the ground. I fall to my knees next to him.

“Master Weekes!” I gasp, “Wake up, wake up!” I touch his face and feel his heart. It's beating quicker than anything I've ever felt. His blue eyes stare up at the sky and his lips continue to move. His voice is reduced to a mumble or a whisper, but it’s still attracting a crowd. 

If you want to know why I’m so nervous about this, I’ll tell you. In this world, you have to be quiet and perfect in public. If you’re insane or damaged like Master Weekes, you can’t show it. Technically, Master Weekes is supposed to stay at home and conceal his imperfections. He’s supposed to suffer in silence, and discard any proof of himself from society. I kept him, though. We were able to hide it for eleven years. 

If someone like Master Weekes has a breakdown in public, it is mandatory to be taken away to a mental hospital, where he’d be isolated forever. I can’t have that happen. I need him, however out of order he is. If he was taken away... I’d be alone. 

My eyes sting as I ball the collar of his shirt in my hands. “Master Weekes...” I sob. 

A patroller steps near me. “Young man,” she says, “is your father okay?” She bends down and tries to touch his wrist. 

I look up at her with a fire in my eyes. “Don’t touch him!” I bark, “He’s alive, I swear. He’s just... he’s just... come on, Weekes.” Dallon keeps muttering nonsense. Through certain parts, I hear my name. The patroller hears it too. 

“Is your name Brendon?” she asks. I nod my head. She continues. “How do you know this man?” 

“Guardian,” I say, “He’s my guardian. Please don’t take him away, please. He’s all I have and I’m all he has. I know he’s crazy but I love him. Let this pass, please.” I pry him from her arms and hug his lanky body to my chest. I burrow my face in his neck. 

He raises a twitchy hand to put in my hair. “Brendon,” he whispers, “It’s time. I’m not able to take care of you anymore. Let go.” 

“No!” I sob and kiss him on the cheek. “I need you! I love you.” 

The whole crowd is staring at us. A few more patrollers have come by. The first patroller explains to them, “This boy doesn’t want to let go of this man, who just had a mental breakdown. They are very close, it seems.” 

Master Weekes’ eyelashes flutter as his hand meets my face. “Stand up,” he chokes, “Stand fast,” A man patroller grabs his shoulders and tugs him forcefully away from me. A different patroller grabs me and does the same. 

“Dallon!” I scream, calling him by his first name. “DON’T LEAVE ME!” 

He kicks his legs and struggles. It was one panic attack, but he knows that’s enough to get taken away. “Stand firm!” he continues, “And never... ungh~ I-I MEAN NEVER... STAND... FUCKING... DOWN!!” 

The whole world seems to stop for a second. I can’t hear a thing and the tears in my eyes are too thick. The patrollers start dragging him towards an ambulance. The people are just holding my arms now, and I’ve submitted to them. I take a deep breath, then whisper, “I love you.” 

For a second, he holds my gaze. No one in the world exists but us. Defeatedly, he sheds a few tears and nods to me. “I love you...” he weeps, “More than I meant to say.” 

I scream protests as I watch him get thrown into the ambulance and driven away. My heart shatters. A veil of grey seems to cover my eyes. “Sorry, kid,” the patroller holding me sighs, “We’ve been watching him for a while, and he’s a schizophrenic. We can’t have him in a perfect world.” 

I hiss and wipe my tears on my sleeve. “But he was in _my_ perfect world. He was the center. Let me go right now and I won’t do anything rash.” They let go of my arms and everyone clears away from the scene. Everyone except Ryan, who looks me in the eye sadly. I run to him and throw my arms over his shoulders. My head fits into his neck, the way it did with Master Weekes. “Ryan...” I whimper, “He’s gone.” 

Ryan hands me a jacket. Master Weekes’ brown jacket. “Not all gone,” he replies quietly, “it fell off his shoulders when he was struggling.” 

I take it from him gently. I raise it to my nose and inhale his scent. The scent takes me back to so many memories; so many places. I weep uncontrollably into Ryan’s jacket. It hasn’t even been five minutes and I’m already a wreck without Weekes. I can’t live without him. “He was all I had,” I shudder. Ryan reaches up to hold my back. 

“I’ve got you,” he hushes, “I’ve got you.” 

“Okay,” I kiss him on the cheek for comfort. He seems surprised, but welcomes it. “Can you... can you walk me home?” 

Ryan nods and takes my hand. It doesn’t feel like a mechanical hand. It feels warm, soft, and comforting. He leads me down the streets and lets me talk about Weekes. I mention his intelligence and his dry sense of humor, along with his gentle singing voice. “His speaking voice was neat too,” I chuckle, “sometimes I’d have him read to me, just to hear the sound of his voice.” 

Ryan nods. I have never seen him smile, I realize. That must be part of being a Census boy. No feelings except fear, anger, and triumph. No love, no random happinesses. We get to my house soon, where I say goodbye. “You don’t want me to stay with you for a while?” he questions, “You might be unstable after such a traumatic experience.” 

I shake my head. “You should probably get back to your home. I’ll be fine.” 

Ryan opens his mouth to object, but then closes it and nods. “If that’s what you want,” he says. 

I force a smile. “It is.” 

Then, without warning, Ryan kisses me. It’s brief and awkward, but it happened. I stand still as he kisses me, wishing I had the energy to kiss him back. He pulls back, blushing. “I’m sorry,” he apologizes. I just shrug and press my fingertips to the side of his face. 

“It’s okay,” I reply. After a few seconds, he says goodbye and runs away. I walk into my house, close the door, and unleash all my inner rage. “DAMN YOU, CENSUS!” I scream, kicking a sack of rice on the floor. “YOU’RE THE REASON I’LL NEVER SEE HIM AGAIN!! I LOVED HIM; I EVEN SAID I LOVED HIM IN FRONT OF YOU!!” 

I tug at my hair and hit myself in the temple, the same way Master Weekes used to. I deserve pain. I deserve to die. It should’ve been me instead. I grab a loose razor blade from the bathroom and force it against my wrist. It stings as blood seeps out in dots. “Yes...” I whisper, “Kill me, destroy me. Leave marks on my skin to remind me how worthless I am. Bleed, motherfucker. Bleed.” I strike my skin again. Dallon would kill me if he saw me doing this. 

But I want to be killed. I want it so bad that I might as well do it right here, right now. I can’t live without Dallon Weekes. With tears in my eyes, I raise the razor to my neck. I’m sorry Ryan, I’m sorry Master Weekes. I just can’t do this without my only family. This world is a wreck, and now I’m another product of it. 

I close my eyes. What if I count to ten, then cut my throat? That would make it less difficult. “One...” I whisper, “two three four five six seven eight nine... nine... nine...” 

I can’t do it. I won’t let myself. I’m stuck on nine. I’m stuck on nine, and I just realized why Master Weekes was, too. 


	4. Stand Firm

I’m not inside the house when it begins to burn down. I wish I was, but I wasn’t. I was at a lake with Ryan, holding his hand and putting my head on his shoulder. We’re kind of boyfriends now, but it hasn’t been established. Even if we’re not, he’s a Census boy. I’m not going to fall in love with a hyper realistic machine if he can’t love me back. Ever since the kiss, I’ve trusted his human side more. I’ve even kissed him a few times myself. He has lips like mine and an awkward blush like mine, but there’s something about his inability to smile. 

I don’t trust it. Everything else about him is perfect, though. I decide to address it at the lake. “You never smile,” I say, fiddling with his slender fingers. “Why?” 

He shrugs, squinting into the sun sinking below the horizon. “I don’t know,” he sighs, “Nothing really makes me want to. I mean, you do, but you’re depressed and probably don’t want me smiling.” 

I lift my head off his shoulder to look him in the eyes. “I want to see you smile,” I say. “Misery feels the worst when it’s shared. C’mon, babe. Smile.” I put his chin in my fingers. He forces a smile that I see right through. “Nope,” I say with a smirk. “That’s not going to cut it.” I connect our lips and exaggerate a moan, making sex noises to make him laugh. It works, and I feel the solidity of his gleaming white teeth against my lips. I open my eyes to see his own eyes holding a new light. 

We stop and stare at each other for a second before emotion overwhelms both of us. We force our mouths together, unaware of what works and how. Our tongues clash against each other lustfully, drawing groans and sighs from our throats. “You’re so real,” I gasp as he bites and sucks at my jawline. “You’re so fucking real.” 

He shivers. “Swear again.” 

I chuckle and nuzzle his ear. “You’re so fucking beautiful, Ry.” 

He reaches out to entangle our fingers, but stops. “I smell something burning,” he deadpans. I open my eyes and sniff the air. It’s coming from over the hill. The hill behind my house. The hill I have to walk over in order to get here. I leap off the bench and start running. The Census boy follows after me. “Wait, Bren! What’s wrong?!” 

Hot tears stream down my face. “MY HOUSE!!” I scream. I scale the hill with no difficulty, then fall to my knees in front of the burning house. The whole place is being swallowed by flames. “No!” I sob, “I thought I had hit rock bottom, but now my house is gone and I— WAIT!” I get off my knees and run inside the burning house. I grab Master Weekes’ jacket (intact, thank god) and a box of his things. As for my personal belongings... screw it. I’m not going to make it out of here. I throw his things out the window and onto safe ground, then find a wooden chair to sit in. 

I’m going to make sure this fire kills me. I have nothing left to live for. I close my eyes as the smoke fills my senses, making me dizzy and fuzzy. I feel a warm sensation flow through my body. “That’s it...” I sigh, “Take the air from my lungs. Fill it with smoke. See you soon, Master Weekes...” 

I go unconscious, and it’s the best feeling in the world. I feel like I’m floating, with golden waves surrounding me. There is nothing restraining my feet, tying me to the ground. I’m free. I see a tall man with worn out facial features standing nearby. Messy hair, brown clothes, long legs. It’s Dallon! I did it! I’m dead. 

“Master Weekes!” I call out, waving my arms. He turns to see me. His face lights up for just a second before he realizes what this meant if I saw him.

“Kid...” he says, “You’re not supposed to be here.”

I walk over to him and wrap my arms around his middle. Tears come to my eyes, and soon I’m weeping hopelessly into him again. “I killed myself,” I confess, “I killed myself for you.”

He gasps softly. “Brendon–“

I shudder and bury my face in his chest. “I know I know I know... I’m sorry!” 

He strokes my hair and kisses my forehead. He’s so calm. Maybe there’s something about being dead for six months that’s calmer than being dead for thirty minutes. I notice he doesn’t have his twitch anymore, too. He’s... he’s ordinary. There’s no mystery to him anymore. “Brendon,” he begins calmly, wiping a tear from my face with his thumb. I whimper softly and nuzzled against his hand. He breathes calmly. Under his breath I hear him whisper, “Back on track.” 

Thank god it’s the real him. 

He continues with his statement. “You shouldn’t have thrown your life away just to see me. I love you so much and I missed you too, but I want you to live your life.” He holds me close. I need him I need him I need him. I need him so much. 

“Can I call you Dallon?” I ask, “Since I get to ask you one question or something?” 

He nods and smiles. “I’ve always wanted you to. Master Weekes was starting to become weird, because it sounded like we were in a sexual relationship, but you just loved it so much that I couldn’t ask you to switch.” 

I chuckle. “Did it ever arouse you when I’d call you that?” 

He ruffles my hair and laughs. “I will neither confirm nor deny anything. Any other questions?” 

I take a deep breath. “Why didn’t you say you loved me until before you died? Why didn’t you ever cry in front of me? Why didn’t you tell me you were a classified schizophrenic? Why can’t I talk to Census boys? I fell in love with a Census boy, and he’s amazing. He’s real, unlike the Census boys you told me about. You lied to me, Dallon, ‘cause he’s fucking real!” 

Dallon cups my jaw in his hands. “Brendon, let me tell you something. Now that you’re dead, it might take a while for all of this to set in.”

”Then explain it to me like I’m five, Dallon.” 

Dallon kisses my forehead and looks me in the eye. “I didn’t say I love you because I couldn’t find the words. I never cried because I didn’t want you to see I’m broken. I never told you I’m a schizophrenic because you looked up to me and I didn’t want to scare you. About the Census boys, I was just telling you what my parents told me. I think it’s beautiful that you fell in love. I think it’s beautiful that he’s real. Is it that book boy?” 

I nod. The answers he gave are all clashing in my head. “Y-Yeah, it’s the book boy.” He and I exchange a smile before I start to feel different. I feel... mortal. Weighted. Faint. “Dallon... dall... Dallon... Master Weekes...” 

He sees the change in my complexion. “B, what’s going on?” 

I feel dizzy and collapse in his arms. “I’m going back,” I say. “I’m going back to earth.” 

Dallon laughs excitedly. “Yes! Go back! I have something to say, though. I love you more than you can ever know, and you shouldn’t waste your life away. Go. Run away with that book boy. Quit the anti Census.” 

I start swaying on my feet until he’s the only thing holding me up. “Okay...” I mumble. 

His lips drift down to my ear. “Don’t give away your life this time.” 


	5. But Never... and I Mean Never....

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did you know that I’ve been saying Dallon’s quivery speech every morning for a few months by now? I’ve been saying the “stand up” poem for as long as I can think. You guys are the first to know that I do that, so you better feel special.

When I wake up, Ryan’s giving me CPR. Tears stream from his eyes as he pumps into my chest. “Brendon,” he whispers shakily, “Brendon, wake up.” 

I launch into a fit of coughing, then turn around to vomit a black substance onto the grass. My voice is hoarse and everything hurts. “Ryan...” I wheeze, “I died.” 

Ryan hugs my burned body to his chest. “Brendon! Oh my god, Brendon!” he weeps. “You’re alive. You’re alive and safe.” He breathes deeply and kisses my forehead. 

I don’t know what to say. I’m ever so thankful that he resuscitated me, but there was a reason I went in there. I didn’t need him to run into the fire just to save my half-dead body. I just stare up at him, feeling the ache in my systems. His hand finds mine, but it burns. My chest rises and falls quickly as I try to catch my breath. “R...R...Ryan...” I cough, “You need to hear what happened...” 

Ryan strokes my hair—the one thing that didn’t burn—and coos quietly into my ear. “Tell me,” he begs, “Tell me what happened.” I shiver and close my eyes. He forces them open again. “You’re not dying. You can’t die. Don’t close your eyes.” 

I swallow hard and cough again before retelling the story to my best ability. “I... I died. I saw Dallon and talked to him. He saw I was dead and I told him about how I k-killed myself. He was worried about that. He said a few things that I can’t forget. Do you have a piece of paper with you?” 

Ryan places me down for a second, fishing in his satchel. He brings out the gold and black journal with his initials on it. He’s clearly confused by the situation, but follows through with it anyway. He lifts up his hat and takes out a pencil. “What did he say? Your hands are burned badly, honey, don’t try to write. Let me write it for you.” He opens up his journal to the next blank page and titles it _Words to live by_. 

I clear my throat. “Dallon did love me, he just didn’t know how to say it. He loved me more than anything in the world.” Ryan nods and writes that in his beautiful cursive handwriting. I continue when he’s done. “He doesn’t want me to throw my life away. He wants me to live my best life, and die naturally. He also wants me to quit the anti Census.” 

Ryan gives me a confused look. “Does that mean you’d join the Census?” he asks as he writes what I said in two bullet points. I shrug and ry to think of what else Dallon said.

“He’s glad I fell in love with you,” I mention. Ryan smiles at me and I smile back as if to confirm that Dallon actually said that. “Two more things,” I say, “And neither will make much sense to you at first, but just wait.” 

He looks to me expectantly. “I’m okay with that. What’s the first one?” 

I squeeze my eyes shut so I can remember it. “Back on track, back on track. One two three four five six seven eight nine. Stand up, sir. Always stand up for what you believe in until proven wrong. Proven wrong, proven wrong, back on track, back on track, shut up shut up just leave me alone.” I say it slowly as to give Ryan the time to get it on the paper. “You get that?” I ask. He nods. 

“That was the thing he said when he... he... broke down in public,” he says uncomfortably. 

I chuckle, “He’s been saying it forever. The last message is actually the old slogan for the anti Census, but I think it can benefit anyone. It’s... um... Stand up, stand fast, stand firm, but never... and I mean _never_... stand down.” Tears come to my stinging eyes. Ryan’s eyes are glistening, too. I sniffle and whisper, “But he never said what to do when I’m standing alone.” 

Ryan tucks hair behind my ear. “That’s not the whole poem, you know.” 

“Poem?” 

He flips to the next page and begins writing without talking. I watch him as he focuses and tries to remember. He’s not writing it like a poem, though. He’s writing a paragraph. After about two minutes, he hands the journal to me and props me up so I can read it easier. 

_Stand up, stand fast, stand firm, but never stand down. Stand out, stand tall, stand together. Through it all, all we can do is stand somehow. If you ever find yourself standing alone, just know the world’s a broken bone._

“Woah...” I gasp. This is so much better in full. Why didn’t I see this before, and how did Ryan know about this? I decide not to ask. “Can we try to find shelter?” I suggest, “Maybe a warehouse or something?” 

Ryan tucks his book in his bag. “I know a place,” he says. He picks me up since I can’t walk with all my burns, then struggles to lead me to a small shed wedged between two houses. He takes a ring of keys from his pocket and unlocks it. Inside looks like a normal house, with a mattress in one corner and a tub of assorted medications in the other. There were two chairs across from each other in the center. I know that doesn’t look like a house in your world, but it was standard living for us. 

He bends down to put me on the bed, then kneels in front of his medicine tub. “Don’t worry,” he says as he’s shuffling through oils and lotions, “I’m a medic of some kind, and I’ve treated burns like yours before.” 

I smile at the ceiling. “Why are you so talented?” I breathe. 

Ryan picks out bandages, gauze, and some healing cream. “I don’t know,” he responds, “I guess that when you live in a dystopian society where someone’s always broken, breaking, or about to be broken, it helps to know what’s to do.” He lifts up my shirt to treat the wounds on my torso. He smirks and makes eye contact with me. “Someone’s been working out,” he muses. 

I feel the blush on my face. “Thanks for noticing.” Ryan lotions each burn with his antibiotics, then puts on a gauze pad and wraps it in ace bandages. My hands hurt the most from it when he’s wrapping them up. “Jesus, Ry,” I gasp, “You don’t need to make me into a mummy.” 

He chuckles and finishes my other hand. “Actually, I might have to. We’re lucky you’re not dead.” That silences the conversation. We both remember why I went in. Suicide. Ryan’s expression is filled with regret and pain. “I’m sorry,” he whispers, tears slipping from his eyes. “I shouldn’t have said that.” 

I reach up to touch his face with my burned hand. It stings, but we’re both in pain anyway. Ever so slightly, my thumb strokes his cheekbone to take off some of the tears. “Don’t be sorry,” I murmur, “It’s not your fault. I was the one who didn’t think.” 

Ryan leans into my hand and sobs. He’s never looked more human than right now; he’s never looked more beautiful than right now. I struggle to sit up, groaning as the skin breaks and stretches on my shoulder blades. My other hand finds his arm. “Don’t cry,” I urge, “I’m not going to kill myself again.” 

Ryan whimpers and nudges my scarred with his nose. “Don’t cut, either.” 

I hesitate before I drop my shoulders and agree with him. “I promise I won’t hurt myself anymore, okay? And if you catch me, I want you to slap me.” Ryan nods and keeps his face in my hand. He seems to be more shaken up than I am. “I love you,” I whisper, “And I’ll never leave you again. We stand together.” 

He wipes his eyes and takes a few breaths. “We stand together,” he repeats. I nod. 

Then, without announcing it, we lean our foreheads together and whisper in unison. “Stand up, stand fast, stand firm, but never stand down.” 

He repeats the full poem with his eyes closed as I go on to say the one thing that comes to mind. Together, it sounds like this: 

Back on track, stand tall. Two three four, through it all. Seven eight nine. If you ever find yourself standing alone, always stand up for what you believe in... The world’s a broken bone, shut up shut up just leave me alone. 

We repeat the sequence until the two statements become one, and neither of us know what we’re even saying anymore. I feel a connection that I’ve never felt before, even with Dallon. I’d trust Ryan with anything and everything, including the things I haven’t told him yet. I want to grow old with him, suffer with him, spend thousands of lifetimes with him. I’m so in love with him, Census or not. Nothing can hold me back now. 

I stop whispering and connect our mouths, kissing him passionately. He melts against my tongue and pants softly. “Brendon...” he moans quietly, “Brendon, I love you.”

I lose all the pain in this moment. It’s just him and me enjoying an intimate moment in a broken world. Now he’s in my lap, his arms dangling behind my back. My bandaged hands are on his thighs to hold him in place. His name falls from my lips at least a thousand times. “Ryan... fuck, I love you.” 

He buries his fingers in my hair. “I love you too. Stand together.” 

I grin against his lips. “Stand together.” 

Hey, Moon? Please forget to fall down. I don’t want this night to end. I don’t want to remember my injuries. I just want this boy, this shed, these tears. Dallon, thank you. I finally stood up, stood fast, and stood firm. I stood down at one point, but I counted to nine and stood up straight. Ever since I met Ryan, I’ve stood up for believing he’s real, and I wasn’t proven wrong. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine... 

I’m starting to get back on track.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> But wait! There’s more.


	6. Stand Down

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m starting to regret not choosing “Stand Out” as one of the main three.

**Ten years after the past events. The world still sucks and the Census is still a thing, but it’s not like we could change that. Who do you think I am, a hero? Ryan and I have our own side to the political fight. We’re neither Census nor anti Census—we’re Indifferent. We just live our lives and do what we can, obeying the rules when we have to. It’s less stressful, and it makes it easier to stay in love.**

”Hey, Brendon?” Ryan calls to me from the ruins of my old house. I set down my camera and follow his voice, struggling to carry myself up the hill. When I find him, he’s cupping a mound of dirt in his hands with the brightest expression. “Look!” he enthuses, “It’s a plant formed from the carbon in the burnt wood!” 

I step closer and lift my glasses from the chain around my neck to my nose. I’m only 26, but I feel so old. Those burns inflicted a lot of long term damage. Squinting at the dirt, I see a little twig coming out. Astonished, I look up to meet my husband’s eyes. There hasn’t been a tree here since... since... I don’t know when. Everything’s just been electricity and metal. “O-Oh wow!” I laugh in disbelief. “Babe! You found one!” 

“It’s a tree!” He giggles excitedly. Neither of us can contain ourselves. “Go get the clay pot,” he commands happily. I nod my head quickly and run back into the house. I look through the scattered boxes until I find the burnt orange vessel, smooth and fragile. I tuck it under my arm and go back outside. Ryan takes it from me and begins scooping soil into it. Then, he places the seedling into the soil, packing the dirt around it with his hands. He takes a bit of water and sprinkles it into the pot, watching it get absorbed. 

“Beautiful,” he whispers. “Where should we put it?” He squints up at me. 

I smile. “Maybe near Dallon’s grave?” Dallon doesn’t really have a grave since we couldn’t find his body, but we made a memorial inside the beaten up cabin. We found a rock to use as a headstone, then used a knife to engrave his name into it. We always keep his chair empty with nothing except his brown jacket hanging on the backrest. Right now, I think it needs a plant. A tree that will grow tall and strong, like him. 

I help my husband get off the ground, then take him and the pot into the ruins. “Watch your head,” I whisper as always. Ryan and I find a spot on the earthen floor to dig a hole and place the seedling. We finish planting it, then sit cross legged in front of it. “We should start a cult,” I joke, “since we like sitting this way around a specific object.” 

Ryan chuckles, but then buries his face in his hands. I hear sniffling, followed by a bit of crying. His shoulders shake immensely as he sobs all over his scarf. I scoot closer to him and put my arms around his shoulders. “What’s wrong?” I ask. 

He wipes his eyes and shakes his head. “I can’t shake the image of you sitting in that... that chair and dying. I know it was ten years ago, but I can’t forget it. I know this is Dallon’s memorial, but it just gets me every time.” 

I fight the tears in my eyes and hug him close. “Ry... I’m okay now. You don’t need to be scared.” I kiss him on the cheek and stroke his soft hand. He leans into me and lets teardrops drip onto his skin as we huddle together and keep watching the tree. I zone out after five minutes of silence, and Ryan falls asleep after twenty minutes. His hair tucks perfectly under my chin, I notice. 

Suddenly, I feel a cold breeze surround my throat. I look up to see Dallon’s translucent ghost standing behind me, jokingly strangling me. “Hey,” he says. 

I nod back, “Hey.” 

“So... you’re married,” He takes his hands off my neck, then picks up his chair and places it next to the tree. He looks down at it, then deadpans, “Is that a gift?” 

I nod and tuck hair behind my ear. “My husband, also known as this little specimen next to me, found it.” 

Dallon smiles. “Thank you, guys. I’m honored.” He puts his hand on his chest dramatically. His voice drips with sarcasm, but I see the light in his squinty eyes. I can’t believe I’m talking to a ghost with such ease. I have to ask a question about this, but Dallon gets to it first. “You know,” he says, “When I was talking to ghosts, it was always my friend Ryan Seaman. I never talked about him because I didn’t know what to say. The words were too heavy.” 

I smile half heartedly. “I feel the same way about you. Is it also because I’m half dead?” 

Dallon nods. “I didn’t want to tell you that part, but yeah. You’re half dead. Once dead, you can’t be fully alive. It’s why you’re weak and why you can see me.” 

“Oh.” 

An awkward silence passes through. Our eyes both drift to Ryan, who’s starting to stir next to me. Dallon chuckles and shakes his head. “You picked a good one, Brendon. Now, uh, I should probably disappear now. It looks like he’s waking up.” 

I nod and kiss Ryan’s forehead. “Okay. By the way, Dallon?” 

As he’s putting his chair back, the tall ghost meets my eyes again. “Yes?” 

“I’m finally back on track.” 

Dallon chuckles lightly and straightens his tie. “Who ever said you fell off?” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well... there is is. It’s done. If you liked it, please drop some kudos or leave a comment. Somewhere on my account is Dallon's story, and it's called "Back on Track: the Dallon Weekes story." If you like this, go check it out. Remember to stand up, stand fast, and stand firm, but never stand down.

**Author's Note:**

> I am very attracted to everything about Dallon. I want to cuddle his lanky body and put my hand in his hair, leaving kisses down his pale neck. He’d sound really pretty with his gasping and shaky moans, since the whispers and exclamations he does during songs seem like a sin. I’m getting shivers from this.


End file.
